Andy was indeed in the kitchen, sitting at the plain wooden table the servants used for their meals. She had a bottle of something sticky and red, which was already half-empty. When she looked up at Marcus, her eyes were fever-bright.

“Hello, Colonel,” she said, slurring only a little. “You want a drop?”

“No, thank you.” Marcus pulled out a chair beside her and sat. “Are you all right?”

“No injuries to report, sir,” she said, saluting with the bottle. A few drops splashed onto the tabletop.

“Andy . . .”

“Sorry.” She took a pull, then put the bottle down. “I’m just a little drunk.”

“I can see that,” Marcus said gently.

“I just . . .” She swallowed. “Hayver was screaming. He looked like a roast someone had left in the fire too long, and he was still screaming.”

“I know.”

“I’ve never seen anyone burn to death before.” She took a deep breath. “Stabbed, bashed over the head, shot. I helped with the wounded after Midvale. I thought nothing could be worse than that. There was this girl, she kept calling for help, but when we lifted her up her guts just fell out. Like she was giving birth to a pile of snakes. And she’s still crying . . .” Andy closed her eyes. “I thought nothing could be worse than that.”

Marcus fought a powerful urge to fold her in his arms. She’s still half a child. But she was a ranker, a soldier, and colonels didn’t embrace their rankers. But . . . hell. His lip twisted, thoughts a tired muddle.

“When you told me to run,” Andy said, “and stood up to shoot . . . you thought you were going to burn, didn’t you? That woman was . . . throwing bombs, or something . . .”

Marcus recognized the look in her eyes. He’d felt it himself, the sense of trying to reconcile what you knew was impossible.

“I thought I had a good shot.” Marcus sighed. “Not that it did much good.”

“Still. Thank you.”

Andy blew out a breath, straightened her shoulders, and took another pull. “When you’ve been in a fight and you’re hurting, what you need is a bottle and a warm body to hold close. That’s what Mad Jane used to say, when we were fighting the tax farmers.” She looked at the bottle. “You want a drop, Colonel? You look like you could use it.”

For a moment, Marcus strongly considered it. Lord knows I’ve crawled into a bottle from time to time. But he was the responsible officer here, for better or for worse. He shook his head, wearily, and pushed his chair back from the table. “What I need is sleep. Good night, Ranker Dracht.”

“Good night, sir.”

Halfway to the door, Marcus paused. “I’m . . . sorry about Hayver.”

“Thank you, sir.” Andy waved the bottle at him.